


My Baby Makes the Worst Coffee Ever

by onfleekhenrique (snowyspiders)



Category: Goon (2011)
Genre: Husbands, M/M, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 19:24:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11538852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowyspiders/pseuds/onfleekhenrique
Summary: Doug's family is coming for a visit, and the hockey player wants to do everything he can to impress them. Unfortunately for Doug, his husband wants to make breakfast, which means nothing short of a kitchen disaster the size of a nuclear bomb.





	My Baby Makes the Worst Coffee Ever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WodkaDeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WodkaDeer/gifts).



> A gift for a friend since I've had terrible writer's block while trying to write my other Doug/Pat fic. Enjoy! *(Word bank is in the end notes)  
> EDIT: Jay said in a YouTube video that Pat's last name is Houlihan, it's canon. Link to video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHI7CYJ1trA

  "Morning, Dougie, today's the big day!"

  "The big day for what?" It was too early in the morning to be smelling burnt food, and Doug barely registered his husband's face careening towards his own until Pat's lips collided with his. "Oof!"

  "Your parents are visiting!"

  "My parents!" Doug sat up, giving his wriggling spouse a peck on the cheek while simultaneously trying to get him to sit still.

  "Is that why I'm smelling burnt food?"

  "Yes! Wait, what? I'm a great cook!" Pat squirmed in his husband's arms, pouting. "How dare you have the audacity to judge my cooking, I'm a great fuckin' cook."

  "Yesterday you burnt the yogurt, Pat."

  "That was an experiment I like to call crème brûlée* on a budget."

  "Okay, well, whatever you call it, I'd kind of like to make breakfast today. Okay?"

  "No fuckin' way, brunch is already up and rolling, you slept in, big guy."

  "Oh shit." Doug rolled over, picking up the alarm clock from his bedside table. "Nine o'clock? How can it be already be nine o'clock?"

  "Like I said," Doug was already standing, Pat trying to shove his bulky frame towards the shower. "You slept in, let me handle breakfast."

 

  What kind of  meshuga* family decides that nine thirty is an acceptable time in the morning for brunch? Oh, that's right, the Glatt family.  


  The doorbell rang just as Doug was doing up the cuff links of his dress shirt. Doug heard a loud crash from the kitchen followed by a stream of expletives.

  "Pat, Pat! Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine! Uh, I've got it, just keep getting ready!"

  The foul stench of burning meat drifted up to Doug's nostrils, and he could already feel a migraine beginning to build behind his temples. 

  "Hii, how are you? Mr. Glatt, Mrs. Glatt, and Ira! How're you doing, buddy?"

  "Just fine thanks, please... don't touch me, Pat."

  "Right, right." 

  Either Ira was still resentful that Doug had gotten a husband before him, or Pat had just touched Doug's brother with syrupy or jammy hands of some description. Doug was guessing it was the latter and hurried out to check on the kitchen. 

  "Oy vey."* Through the haze of purple smoke, the sight of their stove made Doug's stomach drop. There was steaming strawberry jam dribbling from the burner, and breakfast sausages so burnt frying away in a pan that Doug could've used them for pucks. Beside the stove, a stack of pancakes slathered in maple syrup and peanut butter threatened to fall onto the mess already coating the stove top. Doug cracked a window and waited for the smoke to clear.  


  "Mmm, something smells... well-done in there." 

  Doug could hear the strained voice of his mother drifting down the hallway as Pat stalled for time.

  "Oh yeah, I like my yogurt well-done."

  "Your what?"

  "I meant sausages! Sausages. Who doesn't appreciate some good old New England meat? I sure appreciate Doug-"

  "Hi mom, hi dad! I'll just be a minute in here, some of the treats Pat made for us got a bit... smoky."  


  "Oh, you cook?" Doug's father sounded tentatively impressed. 

  "Oh, yeah, all the time. Doug loves my cooking."

  "So you two are getting along alright?"

  "Absolutely, Mrs. Glatt."

  "Pat is the best husband I could ever ask for," called Doug from the kitchen, a moment before burning himself on the coffee carafe that was nearly overflowing. At least there was virtually no way to ruin coffee, Doug thought to himself, biting back a scream of pain.

  "Why don't ah, I give you a tour of the house while we wait for Dougie to finish up?"

  "That sounds like a great idea." Doug heard his father hum in approval as Pat showed the Glatts the framed photos of the Highlanders cup-winning run last season. Doug only hoped Pat could distract them long enough while he sholved burnt pieces of bread and toaster springs into the garbage. 

  Just as Doug was getting ready to take out the trash filled with burnt food and demolished kitchen appliances, his foot brushed something warm and squishy. There, nestled into holes that had been burnt into the linoleum flooring, were a dozen perfectly cooked sunny side up eggs. "How the fuck...?" How the fuck had his husband managed to burn a miniature crater through their floor with luke-warm eggs? Trust Pat to find a way. As Doug scooped eggs into the garbage with a meaty fist, he heard footsteps fast approaching. "I'll just need another second in here, guys!" He had forgotten about the pancakes, and the jam on the stove. 

  Doug's heart skipped a beat as the door opened, smoke flying into the inquisitive faces of his family members.

  Ira held a hand to his mouth as he took in the state of the Houlihan-Glatt kitchen. "Oh. Oh my." 

  "So... there was a bit of a problem with breakfast-"  


  "Yes, and it's all my fault." Doug wasn't about to let Pat take the blame for this mess. "I can start over, if you all would like."

  Mr. Glatt held up a hand. "No, why don't I take us out for breakfast instead? You boys go get cleaned up."

  Pat's face brightened. "You'd really do that? Thank you, so fucking much, Mr. Glatt."

  "You're welcome, Pat." 

 

  "You took one for the team back there." Doug wiped peanut butter off of Pat's chin and gave him a tender kiss.

  "Of course I did, Pat. You're my teammate for life. I don't want my parents thinking that you're some big, dumb, fucking idiot goon in the kitchen. They're already disappointed in me; I'm stupid _and_ gay." 

  "Woah, woah, woah! Dougie, you are not stupid. And your dad offered to buy us breakfast. I'd say he's pretty proud of his Highlander motherfucking champion son, even if his boo is a total fuck up. Come on," Pat squeezed his husband's hand and watched the hurt and tension trickle from Doug's eyes. "That's better."

  "Thank you, Pat, I love you."

  "Love you too, Doug. Oh, by the way, don't let your family try the coffee, I made it with redbull and ah, some other clear fluid I found just laying around."  


  "Pat, you _know_ I wash my gear in the pink tub under the sink."

  From the kitchen, someone cried out, "Aw, fuck!"

  "Ira!"

  "Sorry, Doug, I forgot that was your jock bucket."

  Doug may have taken one for the team, but Pat really, _really_ needed to work on his coffee making skills, and his breakfast making abilities, before becoming a self-proclaimed kitchen prodigy.

  "Baby I love you, but you make the worst coffee ever." 

**Author's Note:**

> Crème brûlée: also known as burnt cream, is a dessert consisting of a rich custard base topped with a contrasting layer of hard caramel (Wikipedia).  
> Meshuga: Hebrew slang meaning crazy or senseless (Merriam-Webster).  
> Oy vey: A Yiddish exclamation indicating dismay or grief (Google).


End file.
